


An All Soul's Day Carol

by Ivy_Adair



Series: An All Soul's Day Carol [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Gender Neutral Hawke, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Literary References & Allusions, Non-Canonical Character Death, Prompt Fill, Rite of Tranquility, Templar Carver Hawke, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_Adair/pseuds/Ivy_Adair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1st of August 9:37 Dragon. On All Soul's Day Eve, Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford is visited by three spirits from the Fade who show him the horrible future he will bring about if he continues to distrust and fear mages. Based on a K-Meme prompt asking for a Dragon Age retelling of 'A Christmas Carol'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An All Soul's Day Carol

**Author's Note:**

> The Prompt:[ http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50808539#t50808539](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50808539#t50808539%0A)
> 
> **************
> 
> **A quick note on the warnings** :
> 
> Firstly, I've tagged this work with everything that I think may be a trigger. So please heed the tags. As a general rule, I consider lyrium consumption by Templars to be drug use.
> 
> There is **implied/referenced non-con** in this work. Nothing is said absolutely explicitly (in my opinion), however, there's really no mistaking the action. This fic references and mentions the Templar abuses in The Gallows that canonically took place during Dragon Age 2. 
> 
> I'm unsure of other people's threshold for violence/gore/etc, so I put the warning on here. There are depictions of blood, death, decapitation etc. **One person's implied is another person's explicit so please use your own discretion**.  
>   
> 
>  
> 
> _This work has not been proofread or edited by anyone other than myself. I acknowledge and apologize for my overzealous use of punctuation._  
> 

**_1st of August 9:37 Dragon - Midnight_ **

Twelve bells from the chantry rang out through the silent night of Kirkwall. It was All Soul’s Day. The day once a year when the devout Andrastians of Thedas lit effigies in remembrance of their sacred prophet and her martyr’s death at the stake. Though it seemed the rest of Kirkwall was asleep in their beds, there was at least one who was yet still awake. A lone candle burned in the quarters of Knight-Captain Cullen. The Templar sat at his desk with his back hunched over scattered pages of parchment. The recently imbibed lyrium sang sweetly through his veins with the chorus of pure magic and the delectable tang of power. A neglected glass of wine sat off to the edge of his papers, dangerously close if any managed to spill. It was a red blend of some sort and slowly growing more and more undrinkable in the open air. A true feat, considering it had started out as utter swill. Drinking itself was frowned upon in the lower ranks, though as Knight-Captain he was allowed the occasional indulgence as long as it was during his off duty hours. Cullen did not often partake, as he was never one to bend the rules. Still, there were times when Cullen longed for a good Tranquil-brewed ale, like they had at Kinloch. Though they were not outright prohibited from brewing, Meredith had pointedly discouraged the Formari from partaking in activities that were deemed ‘unhelpful’ for the residents of The Gallows, so the few Formari in residence compromised mostly enchanters and herbalists. Cullen paused in his work, picked up the glass and took a deep draw from the rim. He grimaced and set it down firmly. The wine sloshed to one side and spilled over, but Cullen paid no attention to the red droplets slowly traveling down the edge. His room was still, but not quiet. The Gallows was never quiet. Throughout the day, the mages rooms rung with the murmurs of apprentices and enchanters. The halls echoed with the clattering and jangling of Templar armor. The courtyard was filled with the sounds of vendors plying their wares and the distant melody of the sea.

It was not, however, daytime.

Nighttime brought the sounds of hushed whispers and clandestine conversations between mages or Templars up to no good. Through the din of soft snores and sleepy sighs, the sounds of skin on skin and weeping haunted the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to still be awake. If Cullen stopped and listened hard enough, he could hear the sounds of soft prayers; canticles falling from lips, praying to a neglectful Maker that mercy would be swift or justice even swifter. Occasionally, he was the source of similar prayers to the Maker and His bride as the demons of his dreams clawed against the walls of his mind. Many nights he awoke with a throat hoarse from screaming and with cheeks still wet from tears. This night, however, the only sounds Cullen contributed to The Gallows was the sound of his quill scratching furiously as he wrote in his personal log. It was a practice recommended to him by Knight-Commander Greagoir after the _incident_ , as they all called it and Cullen found solace in the written word and the tedious work of putting thought to paper.

 _Five more mages given to the Rite today,_ he wrote _. Commander Meredith has assured me that they were found guilty of blood magic. It is a mercy to give them the Brand, than to put them to sword. As Tranquil, they can still lead productive lives in service to the Maker. Dead and they are nothing more than fodder for the so-called Mage Freedom movement. I have prayed to the Maker for guidance, but I have such fear. There is a certain volatility in this city, something simmering just beneath the surface. The very air is ripe with tension. I fear the day the dam breaks. It seems I have little faith anymore but I believe in Meredith and I know that only she can lead this city back into the Maker’s light._

_Many say Meredith’s gone mad. Thrask in particular, Maker reset him, brought his concerns to me. It is true that she has seen evil where there is innocence and that more and more mages have been accused of practicing the forbidden. Yet, I cannot help but think of Kinloch in these times. Greagoir cultivated friendship and harmony with the mages and we as his Knights trusted in him. My friends were cut down and slaughtered like cattle thanks to the leniency of a Knight-Commander. Therefore, I have trouble seeing the error in many of Meredith’s judgments. After all, it was she who understood the torment of losing loved ones to abominations and it was she who sheltered me from the whisperings and rumors of my ultimate shame. Now Thrask is dead at the very hands of the mages he attempted to befriend. He was a good man and a good Templar, but kindness gives way to treachery. I cannot allow such perfidy to corrupt us from within. Meredith is my Commander and I shall be loyal.  
_

He set his quill aside with a sigh and rubbed his face tiredly. His duty for the day had been to oversee the Rites performed and the images of the Brands pressing into skin cluttered his thinking. All these years later, the countless number of Rites performed and the images still chilled him. The emotional pull of sympathy towards their charges was difficult to overcome. It wore on his energy and it was a challenge, even now, to prevent himself from feeling solicitude towards the mages. Templars could not afford emotional connections towards their charges and it was a lesson that was often the hardest for any Templar to learn. Sympathy led one open for betrayal and corruption and Templars, the Knights of the Maker himself, had to be infallible. It was late, though, and Cullen had heard the twelve bells from the distant chantry signifying the start of a new day. Perhaps, he could allow himself a moment of rest before finishing his reports. He let his head fall back against his chair and felt his eyes grow heavy as fatigue clouded his mind. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep. After Kinloch, sleep had become a battle for the young Knight-Captain. The memories he buried in the light of day all bubbled forward and crowded his mind. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wake up screaming, clenching his sweat-soaked sheets. On the worst of nights, he’d dream about the demons of desire wearing Amell’s body. He’d wake up, ashamed and betrayed by his body, with more than sweat to wash out his bed linens. It had been years of near-nightly torture. He had been fortunate enough to have small reprieves. As the tension in the city rose, however, Cullen found that the frequency and intensity of his dreams increased as well.

This night, Cullen’s dreams had him standing somewhere familiar and safe: the old pier he used to go to as a boy. It was early evening in his dream, the sun already halfway through its descent on the horizon. The air was brisk and crisp against his skin as a light breeze gently lifted his hair and tickled his face. The soft sounds of the aged wood creaking as the wind pushed and pulled the water caressed his ears with the warm comfort and familiarity of childhood. Cullen breathed in deep and savored the rare moment of peace. Here, in this place, even the simmering tension between the Mages and the Templars was forgotten. He could simply be.

“Greetings, Knight-Captain.”

A man’s voice shattered the tranquility. Cullen turned sharply and stared at the man standing at the foot of the dock. It had been a trick after all. The demons had delved into his mind and found a new memory for them to taint. Fear and apprehension clawed at him as he wondered what fresh hell awaited him and whether or not he would be able to withstand it once again. His face was set hard as Cullen looked at the man. He was older, with neatly combed black hair and a hint of grey at the temples. Deep valleys trailed across his forehead, like three fingers had swiped the wrinkles across his brow; crow’s feet made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Cullen had never seen this man before. Typically, his nightmares involved the same figures over and over again. He knew their faces almost as well as he knew the faces of his fellow Templars. This stranger was not one of his nightly tormentors and Cullen wasn’t entirely sure if that should bring him comfort or terror.

“You need not fear, young Templar."

“Who are you?”

“I am called Acumen, a spirit of wisdom.”

“I am no mage,” Cullen hissed. “You will gain no hold in me, Demon.”

Acumen ignored him. “You shall play a great role in the future yet to come, Cullen Stanton Rutherford. But, your soul has been poisoned by fear and hate. As it stands now, the Inquisition will fail and the Elder One shall be victorious. He will tear the worlds asunder, both yours and mine, in his quest for power.” Cullen froze, his eyes narrowed at Acumen. The spirit seemingly took Cullen’s silence as leave to continue, “my brothers and sisters have been tasked by our father’s bride with bestowing a rare gift unto you. Tonight, you shall be visited by three spirits. Heed their words, young Templar and the future might yet be saved.”

As Cullen opened his mouth to retort, the dream world shifted. It felt as if someone had taken his entire world and upended it around him. He stumbled backwards and lost his balance, tumbling into the water below the small dock. He sputtered and flailed as his eyes snapped open and the dream disappeared in an instant. Awake again, Cullen heaved a weary sigh and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. That had been…different. As often as creatures and figments of the fade had been in his dreams, he’d never had an encounter with anything claiming to be a spirit. Looking down at the mess of papers on his desk, he toyed with the idea of going back to work. The brief nap had done little to ease his exhaustion and the edges of his mind had already begun to blur with torpor. It was better to head to bed and endeavor to get sleep before resuming early in the morning. Pushing back from his desk, Cullen rose and stretched. His back creaked and a soft groan escaped his lips as his stiffened muscles attempted to loosen and warm. Perhaps he was getting too old to sit at his desk for so many hours without a break. He was deep in his thoughts of age and infirmity when the single candle on his desk suddenly snuffed out. He jumped and clutched at his body, as if the flame had gone out with a sudden burst of sound. It was odd, there was no breeze coming through his open windows. The air was stagnant, as if it were a solid and unmoving thing. He glanced around the room before his eyes settled back on the candle. In the soft moonlight, he watched as a single coil of wispy, grey smoke curled lazily towards his ceiling. It was mesmerizing, but not out of the ordinary. With an imperceptible shrug, he crossed the room and knelt before his bed. Not even exhaustion would keep him from his nightly devotions to the Maker. With hands crossed, he shut his eyes and began to pray:

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” he murmured.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” a feminine voice continued.

The Templar cried out in surprise. He was on his feet in a flash, reaching for his sword. His hand curled around the familiar leather-wrapped hilt and he rounded on the unknown enemy, only to find…nothing. His heart thudded violently in his chest as he panted, the shock having stolen his breath. He looked around the room wildly, his body whirling around in place to find the hidden attacker. His door had been locked from the inside and his rooms were high enough in the towers that no one would dare enter through the open window. He wondered briefly if it was agents from the Mage Underground, so intent on their futile cause that they’d resort to attacking him with magic in his own quarters.

From over his shoulder, the voice came again: “Please continue, Knight-Captain. The Chant sounds so lovely in your voice.”

Cullen whirled around, sword already arcing through the air. It passed harmlessly through the intruder. His eyes widened and he raised his sword for another - albeit useless - attack. “Demon,” he hissed.

The demon had taken the appearance of a woman. Her eyes were kind; quite unlike the majority of demons Cullen had the misfortune of encountering. With long brown hair that hung loosely and reached past her shoulders, a simple linen dress with a trimming of cheap lace along the neckline, and a red shawl around her shoulders she looked more the part of a simple village woman than demon. However, he had learned all too well that demons could wear the skin of others to achieve their means. Yet this woman was not a figure he had seen before.

The leather of his sword handle creaked as he gripped the weapon in a white-knuckled hand. He steeled himself, kept his face hard and snarled, “I have faced your kind before and risen victorious. You shall have no command over me. Begone!”

The woman smiled softly, almost motherly. “My name is Conviction. I am a spirit of faith, come to you as a guide.”

“I have fallen asleep at my desk. This is a nightmare.”

“No, Knight-Captain. If you recall, you already awoke from that dream.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I have been given the honor of helping you to understand your fears and guide you so that you might find your way back into faith.”

Conviction reached across the gap between them and put a surprisingly corporeal hand on his arm. It was soft, warm and filled him with a strange sense of comfort. It was the same feeling he had in the pool of his belly after visiting the Chantry before the _incident_. Gently, the spirit trailed her hand down his arm and pressed her palm against his.

“Come with me.”

The world around the two of them shifted and began to blur. Colors all ran together as if someone had run their hands over an artist’s palette and mixed all the colors together. There were no sounds in his ears and his legs felt as if they had suddenly frozen. He was pinioned, but not panicking as the same sensation of warm serenity continued to ebb over him. He felt no wind, though he had the sudden awareness that he was moving at an incredible rate of speed. A groan escaped him as the world lurched back into place, as if someone had suddenly stopped the passage of an arrow by catching the shaft in their hand. His vision swam and he doubled over, dry heaving.

“What sort of magic was that?” he gasped.

“Do you know where you are?”

Cullen looked up. _Honnleath_ , he realized, _home_ ; it had been years since he had been back to the small Ferelden village and it looked just as he remembered from his boyhood. The small ramshackle houses, the tiny village green and the large, hulking golem in the middle of the town were all figures of his childhood years in Honnleath. He could remember his eldest sister Mia sprinkling the grass with birdseed and laughing as the birds perched on the outstretched arms of the frozen golem. His legs were like jelly as he attempted to walk. Each step brought forth another wave of memories crashing against his mind’s eye: his first kiss behind the Chantry, the days spent playing knight and soldier with the other boys in the fields just outside of town and the tearful goodbyes as he left his home to become a Templar. Though his family’s home was outside the village proper, he had spent many days playing inside Honnleath with the other children who lived in and around the small village. As he grew Cullen spent more time in their local chantry, continuously begging the local Knight-Commander to allow him to join the Templars. As a young recruit, he had considered it the greatest moment of his life when the Knight-Commander relented and spoke to his parents. Cullen shivered at the memory. His eyes flicked around the village quickly before landing again on the stone golem.

“Wait,” he began, pointing at the statue. “Solona unfroze the golem and it followed her around during the Blight. I r-remember it coming to the tower.”

“You are correct,” Conviction answered.

“Maker’s breath,” he whispered, dread already coiling around the base of his spine. “Is this…we’re in the past?”

“Yes. Come with me, Cullen.”

The spirit led him through the village green, down the hill and into the small chantry. The smell of the old beeswax candles they used filled his nostrils and chased away the ill feelings lurching up his limbs. He stepped past the spirit, towards the statue of Andraste. The sounds of a boy praying drew his attention. Perched just below the statue, eyes shut and head bowed in deep reflection, was thirteen-year-old him. He gasped and covered his mouth as he expected the boy to notice him. He did not.

“Maker have mercy," he hissed as he studied the young boy in front of him.

“They are simply shadows of things already come to pass,” Conviction murmured. “We cannot change these events, Cullen. We can only watch.”

“I remember this moment,” he whispered, afraid to speak any louder.

“This is when your faith was born, when I first came to know you.”

The door to the chantry opened. Both versions of Cullen turned and watched as a Templar in Knight-Commander uniform strode into the building. Knight-Commander Gideon of Honnleath was the sort of man the Maker himself would leave the Golden City to stand beside, as blasphemous as such thoughts were. Even in the meager light of the candles and stained glass, the man’s armor gleamed like a polished Antivan looking glass. He carried himself with purpose, as if doubts or faithlessness had never plagued him for a moment of his life. Even as an adult, he admired this man but envied him as well. He had been everything that young Cullen had ever aspired to be. Before Kinloch, before Kirkwall this man was the sort of Templar from which Cullen believed all other Templars should be formed. Little fingers of fear tingled down Cullen’s back as he realized the strength of the grip that envy had over him. He shook himself, breathed deep and forced such thoughts from his mind. The demon Envy would gain no hold over him. _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure._

“He died in the Blight,” Cullen said, wishing to fill the silence. “When the village was overrun by darkspawn he gave himself so that the villagers might live.”

The Knight-Commander paused in front of Andraste. Cullen watched as the older man’s eyes flicked upwards to their profit before closing and murmuring a soft prayer. Only then, did he acknowledge the little boy staring up at him with unabashed adoration.

“Why do you want to be a Templar, Cullen?”

Without thinking, adult-Cullen opened his mouth to answer only to be interrupted by the child version of himself: “I want to be a great Knight and serve the will of the Maker, Ser.”

“Yes, our first calling is to the Maker. If you are a Templar, however, it is likely you will serve in a Circle. How do you feel about mages?”

Child-Cullen hesitated. He was a poor Fereldan village child whose only experience with magic involved the verses in the Chant and the scary stories told by his peers. He was, of course, terrified of mages. He had heard stories of demons and maleficar and feared being alone with someone who could do magic. He’d been told the story of the Black City and the mages who brought the Taint into their world during Chantry service. Even at his young age, he’d heard of the Black Divine and the horrors of the Tevinter Imperium. They were the ones who set fire to their great prophet, the Bride of the Maker depicted in the statue looming above him.

A Templar, though, feared none of these things. Templars stand poised and ready to right the wrongs caused by rogue magic. The Templars were the ones who could stop a mage in their tracks and pass the judgment of the Maker upon them. At that age, Cullen wanted nothing in the world more than to be a Templar.

So, he answered: “I am not afraid of them.”

Gideon chuckled a little. “There is nothing wrong with being afraid, lad. It is the overly brave and brash who die young.”

Child-Cullen looked away, cheeks turning pink.

“I think mages need protection. From the world outside and from their very selves,” Gideon’s gaze swept back up to Andraste as he spoke, as if he was speaking directly to the prophetess. “The world outside of the Circle fears them. They don’t understand mages and their plight. To them, mages are abominations and maleficar waiting to happen. Everyone forgets that they are people; just the same as the ones who live in every corner of Thedas. If you’re going to be a Templar, Cullen, you must never forget that. The first and foremost purpose of the Templar is to stand side by side with mages, as protectors and as supporters…friends.”

Cullen’s breath hitched in his chest as unconscious tears pricked at his eyes. His own harsh words spoken about the inherent danger and wickedness of those he considered cursed by the Maker echoed in his ears. Despite the fact that this Knight-Commander was dead and not even speaking to him directly, Cullen felt almost as chastised as a recruit late for morning muster. He muttered a curse under his breath and looked away from Knight-Commander Gideon. The brief wave of sadness that washed over him faded to righteous anger. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into the meat of his palm. He hoped to cut the skin, bring him back to reality if this was a trick of the Fade. In an instant, Cullen rounded on Conviction.

“It’s foolish, stupid talk like that that made Kinloch happen,” he snarled at the spirit. “Mages are not people, not like me. Not like him.”

“You did not always think so.”

“Enough of this! Take me back to Kirkwall.”

“There is still more you must see.”

The world around them shifted again. Lurching, pulling, whirling into blurred masses of color and light. Unlike before, however, Cullen was very aware of being pulled in the opposite direction. All at once, they stopped and he was standing in the middle of Kinloch Hold. The tower was just as he remembered it before Uldred’s attack. Cullen inhaled deeply; even the stale twinge of ancient magic that seemed to emanate from the very stone was still clinging in the air. He strode away from Conviction, through the rounded hallways. He could see helmeted Templars standing their duty in the halls while mages plied their crafts around them. His heart clenched in his chest and his skin crawled with the feeling of thousands of pins pricking him. It made him feel all at once homesick but fearful and anxious as well. His hands on his hips, he bowed his head and tried to steady his uneven breath. As he attempted to breathe, he could hear the clattering of Templar metal rounding the corner. Instinctually, he stepped aside to let the approaching Knight by. As he moved, his eyes flicked upwards towards the un-helmeted man. The bottom of his stomach fell out as he watched a younger version of himself stride by.

“Do you remember?”

“How can I forget?” he seethed. “I still have the nightmares. I am still haunted by this place.”

“Yes,” Conviction replied. “You carry the bad with you everywhere and have left behind the good.”

“Tell me, Conviction, how am I supposed to leave the bad of this place behind when I am still tormented? Every night I am forced to relive these memories. I still see my friends dying, their blood drenching the stone floors and soaking into these Maker forsaken rugs,” he cried as he delivered a decisive kick to an offending green runner. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking a little. He lifted his gaze slowly and waited for Conviction to offer something, some answer he had overlooked for ridding himself of the agony.

The spirit did not reply. So, Cullen grit his teeth and stormed off after himself. The clattering of Templar armor was easy enough to follow, even echoing in every direction of the rough stone halls. Younger Cullen came to a stop just outside one of the practice areas. He stood next to another Templar and the two greeted each other with small nods. Older Cullen’s heart began to hammer a wild staccato in his chest as he realized the other Templar was Ser Ellis, one of the many of Cullen’s friends to lose their life to Uldred. A strangled groan fell through his parted lips as he unconsciously reached out for the man. He wanted to grasp his shoulder, his arm…anything. Perhaps if Cullen could but warn his friend of the danger that was coming he could save him. If he could just save one of them, then perhaps the nightmares would show mercy. He bit back a dry sob as his fingers passed through the man as if he were nothing more than air.

“Why do you torment me, Spirit?”

“These are the figures of the past, Knight-Captain. That they are what they are, is no fault of mine,” she replied, not unkindly. “Come, let us watch and see.”

Cullen turned away from Conviction, and craned his neck to see what had captured the fascination of his younger self. He froze as he saw it: straight ahead stood Solona Amell. She was facing Irving, who casting a barrier over himself. The light played across her golden hair, as she tossed her head once in attempt to toss her unruly bangs off her forehead. Even years later, Cullen could recall with a desperate ache how much he had wanted to brush the hair from her eyes with the tips of his fingers. She held no staff in her hand and he could recall that she had disliked using them. It was no surprise when he learned how she had adapted to using a sword and shield in the same vein as the ancient arcane warriors. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at her mentor. The weight of her beauty hit Cullen like the combined weight of the twin statues guarding Kirkwall’s harbor.

“All right, Solona. I want you to hit me with your fireball, put everything you have behind it.”

Cullen couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped him. He glanced to his younger self, and felt sick as he saw the excitement in his younger eyes. The older Cullen spoke over his shoulder to Conviction: “I had forgotten the foolishness of this Circle. I should have silenced them, smited them. Anything to stop this lunacy.”

“First Enchanter, are you sure?” he heard Solona murmur.

“Aye, Child. You will not hurt me.”

Unconsciously, Cullen held his breath as he saw Solona lift her hands to cast. Even in this ghost-like state, Cullen could feel the familiar crackle of magic in the air as Solona pulled at the energy of the fade. He remembered her magic felt different than other mages he had encountered since. Hers was like Irving’s, strong and precise but subtle. It caressed his lyrium-infused veins gently, like a lover. Other mages, like Orsino, it felt like rippling deep within him. For Uldred, Cullen recalled that it had felt like being burnt from the inside out. He saw the flame growing between Solona’s fingertips as she held her hands together in front of her. She grunted with effort and sent the ball of flame hurtling towards the First Enchanter. The fireball exploded against his barrier, shattering the force field and sending the elderly mage stumbling backwards. For a brief, terrifying moment the hall was silent. Solona stood, proud and tall as the mage tower itself and waited for Irving to regroup. The First Enchanter smoothed down his mussed robes and burst into hearty chuckles. Solona’s beautiful face cracked into a wide grin.

“She’s powerful,” Ser Ellis murmured. “She’s the first student Irving’s taken on in years. There’s already talk that she could be Grand Enchanter one day.”

The older Cullen snorted, not bothering to wait for his younger counterpart’s response. “Instead she ran off to join the Blighted Wardens.”

“Had she stayed, who would have freed you from Uldred’s prison?” Cullen grunted noncommittally. Conviction continued, “Her fate was decided a long time ago. She was always meant to leave and come back.”

“So Uldred was always meant to become an abomination and murder my friends?”

The spirit reached across the gap between them and placed her soft, comforting hand on his shoulder. The corners of her lips turned down, as her eyes became glassy. “There are events in time which must always happen, Knight-Captain. Circumstances may change, depending on the choices you mortals make. Uldred was always going to turn to blood magic in an effort to free the Circle. Yet, your Warden Mage made the choice herself of sparing every mage she could. She could have easily chosen to heed your words and kill everyone in the tower.”

“But she didn’t,” Cullen whispered. “She sided against me.”

“No, Knight-Captain. She trusted in the strength of Irving and the other Senior Enchanters.”

“If she had been wrong,” Cullen began.

Conviction held up a hand to silence him. “She took a leap of faith when she entered the Harrowing chamber, as all who are strong in my kind must do.”

Cullen huffed and ran a hand through his curly hair.

“Hello,” he could hear Solona say, warmly.

He whirled around to see her looking at his younger self. The younger Cullen turned bright red and muttered a soft greeting back to her. She was smiling, seemingly unselfconscious about talking to a Templar. While Kinloch was decidedly more open and less restrictive than The Gallows, it was still uncommon for any mages - especially apprentices - to even acknowledge the presence of their constant protectors. Cullen could remember the young mages whispering worriedly about the Templars watching them bathe and dress. At Kinloch, they hadn’t done such things. The mages were monitored closely, but always given that measure of privacy. It was one of the many changes that Cullen had found welcome at The Gallows. The mages were never left alone. Even at night, Templars on patrol were heavily encouraged to enter the mage’s quarters and practice routine silences. A silence interrupted the mage’s connection to the Fade and would rouse them from their dreams. That it typically made the mages vomit and weep was a small price to pay for preventing blood magic and abominations from taking hold in the Circle. Better to be enemies than victims, Meredith had taught Cullen. Seeing Solona, however, brought back the memory of the easy peace. When he thought of it, Cullen could remember that truce between the mages and Templars of Kinloch with a modicum of longing. Solona had been a rare creature. Cullen recalled the other Templars speaking of her: the bright-eyed apprentice powerful enough to draw Irving from retirement and fearless enough to converse with Templars on a regular basis. When he put his thoughts together, he realized it should have come as no surprise that she had been the one to save the world. Yet, the physical longing he felt for the beautiful woman standing near him filled him with deep shame. Knowing that this shade in front of him was real and not a demon wearing the skin of her made Cullen’s heart beat erratically. He wanted more than anything to hate her. He wanted to be sickened by the very sight of her, but he wasn’t. Void take him, Cullen still desired her.

“You torment yourself,” Conviction remarked, shattering his focus. “Why?”

He sneered. “She is a mage. I am a Templar. It is…unnatural.”

“You both are children of the Maker and able to love equally well any mortal.”

 _'She is a mage,'_ he wanted to retort. She wasn’t really a person. The curse of the blighted magic running through her veins discounted her from the rest of the population of humans. Yet, as he watched the beautiful woman in front of him throw her head back and laugh the words died in his throat. He was unable to answer the spirit. Instead, he watched in silence as his younger self blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. Cullen shut his eyes as the world around them shifted and twirled, whirling away through time to the next moment Conviction had chosen.

_“This trick again?”_

Cullen’s eyes snapped open. Dread curled around his spine and dragged icy hands of fear down his back as he saw the younger Cullen kneeling inside of a pink barrier. His stomach clenched as a pained cry ripped its way out of his throat. Solona and her party stood before him. He could feel his heart beating so furiously hard against his chest, he had to wonder how it hadn’t simply ruptured and flopped across the floor.

“Spirit, please. I beg you, show me anything but this.”

“Do you know this moment, Knight-Captain?” she asked innocently.

“Please, I c-can’t,” he pleaded, his voice breaking.

“This is the moment that I lost you. The moment that your faith died; only to be replaced by foolish pride, my corrupted form.”

He could hear the slight edge to her voice and see the subtle anger that burned behind her eyes as she regarded him.

“C-corrupted form?”

“When a spirit is corrupted, tainted or denied its original purpose it becomes a demon. Spirits of faith become demons of pride. You may not be an abomination, Knight-Captain. But you serve demons all the same with the fear, doubt and despair you carry in your breast.”

_“I know what you are. It won’t work. I will stay strong…”_

Cullen buried his face in his hands and let out a frustrated cry.

_“Using my shame against me… my ill-advised infatuation with her… a mage, of all things.”_

“Stop this!” Cullen cried. “Have you no heart at all, Spirit? I was tortured, made to break and submit myself to abominations and blood magic. The very thing that Templars are supposed to prevent.”

“You truly believe that to be the sole function of the Templar?”

“A Templar does the Maker’s will. I refuse to believe that consorting with demons is part of that,” he sneered, waiting for Conviction to speak. When silence came, he continued, “mages have already proven themselves unable to resist the call of demons and blood magic. They cannot be made to govern themselves, Kinloch proved that.”

“What of Solona?” Conviction asked softly.

Cullen winced as if he had been struck. He swallowed before speaking, “she uh, she is a Warden. Their order allows mages to commit such atrocities in the name of stopping the Blight.”

“She could have used blood magic, multiple times and did not. When she went to Redcliffe and found her friend Jowan, he offered her the use of blood magic to save the little boy. His mother was willing to give her blood as power for the ritual. Yet, she refused. She came to the Circle and sought out help from her fellows.”

“That…that was just Solona,” he replied dumbly.

“What of the Champion?”

“You mean Hawke?”

“Your Champion is a born and bred apostate, never set foot inside the Circle.”

“And has aided apostates at every turn!”

The Spirit smirked. “Yet Hawke killed the maleficar who murdered his wife in the Alienage, killed the abomination in Darktown and persuaded Emile de Launcet to return to the Circle. Those area all actions that have aided Templars.”

Cullen looked away from Conviction, watching the terrible scene unfold. Solona pressed her hand against the barrier, trying to convince him that she had to let her fellow mages live. His younger self insulted her, and from his new angle he could see the hurt blossoming across her face. There was a time when he considered himself in love with her. Foolishly, shamefully in love with the woman he had driven away by his harshness and cruelty. He remembered her coming to speak to him again, after the Blight and before his transfer to Kirkwall. She had just wanted to see how he was, but she had brought her lover with her. An Antivan assassin, an elf…a man who had stood by her and didn’t seem to care that she had magic, that she was inherently dangerous and cursed by the Maker. It had hurt him more than it should and did nothing to assuage his night terrors. The world lurched around them again. The awful vision of him stuck behind the barrier and spewing hate faded. Yet, it did little to ease the tension in his shoulders and the waves of nausea crashing against the sides of his stomach. Suddenly, he was back in his room at The Gallows. His body gave out and he crumpled to the floor.

“I have shown you the truth of your past, Knight-Captain,” Conviction murmured. “Now, our time is at an end. Remember what you have seen this evening, and keep the memories fresh in your mind when you meet my brother.”

“Wait,” Cullen began. “I want to have faith again, I want to believe in _something_ other than this fear but I have such…doubt.”

Conviction reached across the gap between them and pressed her hand against Cullen’s lightly stubbled cheek. Her thumb stroked a soft circle in his flesh. Memories of his mother, comforting gestures to wipe away his boyhood tears flitted in front of his mind’s eye. The spirit smiled softly, gently as she leaned in and whispered, “faith is made stronger by facing doubt. Untested, it is nothing.” She stepped back, her gentle smile never faltering. “Good luck, Knight-Captain.”

The spirit faded from view, leaving Cullen alone and shaking in the darkness.

* * *

An hour passed and Cullen found himself unable to move from his spot on the floor. The cold stone had made his legs prickle with numbness. Yet the Templar feared breaking the stillness of the room, as if his movements would somehow shatter the glass-like air in the room. The memories he had long locked away were simmering just beneath the surface of his consciousness. If he attempted sleep he knew his nightmares would claim him. He clasped his shaking hands in front of him, from his position sitting on the floor, rolled on to his knees, and began to pray again.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light.”

The lone candle in the Knight-Captain’s room burst to life. Cullen gasped and fell back from his knees, his tailbone colliding painfully with the stone. The flame flickered merrily, brighter than any candle he had ever seen. The shadows on his wall seemed to dance. As Cullen righted himself, he rose to his feet. The pins and needles in his skin prickled painfully as he took shuddering steps towards the burning candle. Such tricks could be the source of magic, yet Cullen felt no sensation of a spell under his skin. He glanced around for a moment before leaning forward and blowing a steady stream of air at the candle. The flame faltered once, went out and relit itself in a moment. The Templar let a small hiss of air out through his teeth and stumbled back from the magical light.

“Hope is a flame in the breast of the despondent. All too easily extinguished in some, while others nearly impossible.”

Cullen turned to see a man standing in his room, arms crossed against his breast, watching Cullen amusedly. He dressed like a nobleman; his garishly colored, silken clothes shone in the soft candlelight. An orange tunic with gold buttons and yellow breeches, the man was impossible to miss. He had dark hair that hung to his bare chin and dark eyes that were watching Cullen carefully.

The Knight-Captain sighed, “another spirit, then?”

The man smiled and swept his arms out wide in a mocking bow. “I am Prospect.”

“Ah, and what are you?”

The spirit’s eyes darkened as he sized up Cullen. “I am the spirit of that which you steal daily. I represent the very nature that you have seen fit to deny to the ones you are sworn to protect. It is my polluted brothers and sisters that haunt these halls and feed until they are gluttonous and brimming with power.”

Cullen stared at the spirit with wide eyes, fear washing over him in waves. His heart thudded heavily against his breast as the spirit watched him with deadly calm. The man’s words sent a chill up his spine, though Cullen was unsure of what he was talking about. The thought of demons in the Gallows, feeding off the occupants made him feel ill.

“I am a spirit of hope.”

“Y-you are very different from Conviction,” Cullen remarked dumbly.

Prospect scoffed and smirked at the Templar. “Aye, I am. Faith is a soft, delicate thing. It sits inside the heart and lights from within. It brings comfort and kindness to all that it touches. I am hope. I am fragile, easily killed but I can burn brighter than any light in the mortal plane. There are times when my brethren alone are invoked as the only tool of survival. You, Templar, have been all too instrumental in the bastardization and debasement of my kind.”

“I, uh-”

Prospect ignored his stammering attempt at a response. “Now, come with me. Conviction showed you the truth of your past. It is my turn to show you the truth of your present.”

The spirit crossed the gap between them and clapped Cullen on the shoulder. Cullen’s quarters faded from around them. Where Conviction’s travels had been swirling lines of color and light, Prospect’s was instantaneous. In one moment, they were in Cullen’s quarters. The next, he found himself standing in the hallway of the apprentice quarters. He had expected to hear the sounds of soft snores or the gentle jingle of Templar armor as the knights patrolled. Instead, the sounds of whimpering cries assaulted his ears. He could hear the hissing sounds of someone whispering and others hiding their laughter. He looked around wildly and found no Templars standing vigil, as they should. All the doors to the cells were shut save for one. Cullen tore off towards it, threw himself into the open light and promptly began dry heaving. He recovered and glowered as he tried to throw himself on to the Templar pushing the bare mage into the cell’s stained mattress. But, he found himself passing through the Templar just as he had with the shadows of his past. Cullen growled; whirling around to see the room was filled with helmeted Templars of varying rank. The lone mage, the source of the whimpering, Cullen recognized as an elf they had just brought in from the alienage.

_“You could use magic to get me to stop.”_

Using magic against a Templar was an automatic Branding offense if it was mild. To cause any harm, perceived or actual, to a Templar meant execution for the mage. Cullen reached for the helmet of the murmuring Templar, and screamed in frustration as his fingers passed through the metal. He rounded on Prospect.

“Show me who these men are!”

“Why?” asked Prospect, looking bored and inspecting his nails.

“Why?” Cullen sputtered. “This is abominable, you cannot treat a person in this manner.”

“I thought that mages weren’t people.”

Cullen’s mouth snapped shut. All arguments and protests died in his throat; he found he couldn’t meet Prospect’s steely gaze and began to halfheartedly count the cracks in the stone tile. He glanced back up after a moment to see Prospect watching the scene inside the mage’s small cell.

“I do wonder what Knight-Commander Gideon would think of this display,” he murmured softly, just loud enough for Cullen to hear.

“Please,” Cullen whispered.

He felt the heavy weight of Prospect’s hand against his shoulder as the world faded again. They were standing in the bowels of The Gallows. The air around them smelled like the salt of the ocean and the deep tang of iron. It was cold enough for gooseflesh to breakout on his exposed arms.

_“We have to do something about Meredith.”_

“That’s Ser Moira,” Cullen remarked as he headed towards the sounds of voices. There were three Templars, heads held together in private conference.

“Shit,” one of them cursed, rubbing his face. As his hand fell away, Cullen immediately recognized the man as Carver Hawke, brother to the Champion. “What are we supposed to do? She’s getting nuttier by the day and no one is doing a sodding thing about it.”

“What about the Knight-Captain?” the third one, a recruit named Bryant asked.

“He’s not going to do a thing about her,” Moira hissed.

“Cullen’s a good man,” Carver argued.

“Good man or not, Hawke, he hates mages and loves Meredith. You know he was promoted to Knight-Captain because he thinks the same things she does.”

“Is that true?” Bryant asked.

“It is! He said in the courtyard to the Champion that mages weren’t really people. He’d kill or brand the lot of them,” Moira said. Carver sighed and looked away from the two. Moira saw and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Like it or not, Hawke, the only way things will change is if both the Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain are gone.”

“You are silent, Knight-Captain,” the spirit called from behind Cullen’s shoulder.

“I do not have anything to say,” Cullen admitted.

“Surely you have something.”

Cullen sighed, “I did not realize they thought of me the same as Meredith.” The spirit scoffed. “No, truly. I am not blind; I know Meredith has been growing more paranoid as of late. She’s seeing maleficar at every turn, but I have never considered....”

He trailed off and looked away from the spirit’s knowing eyes.

“Maker,” Cullen cursed. “This is what they think of me. They believe that I…. Andraste’s blood. On some level I knew about the abuses but I never really _knew_.”

“And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought and despaired,” Prospect murmured. Cullen bit back a whimper as the words cut through him like daggers. “Spirits don’t say the Chant, for obvious reasons. I’ve always liked it, but typically because its words invoke my kind.” The Spirit paused thoughtfully. “There was a time when its words used to give you hope. Now, you use it as a weapon; a way to call forth your righteous anger…and mortals wonder why my father turned his back to them.”

When Cullen still said nothing, Prospect sighed and grasped his shoulder again. The Templar blinked and found that he was standing in the middle of a chantry he did not recognize. It was a darkened room, lit mostly by the light of worship candles placed at the feet of statues depicting Andraste. It was a calm place, silent save for the soft murmuring of a single worshiper: a young woman. She had her head bowed in deep prayer, and Cullen was surprised to see her wearing simple blue mage robes. He looked around, suddenly realizing he was in the middle of a Circle chantry. It wasn’t The Gallows chapel, nor was it Kinloch.

“Where are we?” he asked Prospect.

“Ostwick.”

“Why Ostwick? I thought this was supposed to be about the truth of my present.”

Prospect stalked around him and took a seat next to the young woman. He tilted his head towards her as he spoke to Cullen: “This young woman’s fate is intertwined with yours, Knight-Captain.”

“But I-I don’t even know who she is.”

“You will.”

“Evelyn!” A child’s voice ripped through the silence of the chapel. The praying young woman’s eyes snapped open as she looked towards a small elfin girl running frantically towards her. Cullen expected her to be upset, but the woman’s face was soft and warm as she regarded the child. _Maker’s breath, she is beautiful_ , he thought to himself. Ice traveled down his spine as the rogue thought shifted to the center of his mind. He shook his head and willed it to leave him. He hadn’t thought another woman beautiful since Amell. The thought that it is, yet again, a mage filled him with trepidation and shame. His cheeks burned as if the mage in front of him had lit them with her curse. Still, he couldn’t help but notice that she is nothing like Amell. Where Solona was light, this woman was dark. Instead of blonde hair, brown was pinned back into some practical style; blue eyes instead of green. Solona was lithe, like a willow. Evelyn lightly curved and womanly even with the shapeless robes. Cullen cleared his throat, ignoring the wobble of heart as he forced his mind to think of something other than the shape of the woman in front of him.

“Mariel? Is everything all right?”

The child sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Daniel said that boys are better at magic than girls. He said that I’d never make it past apprentice because I’m not only a knife-ear, but I’m also a _girl_.”

The young woman’s brow furrowed. Cullen could see the anger blooming behind the bright blue of her eyes, but she still kept her face soft when regarding the child. She crouched down, reaching eye-level with the girl and gripped her shoulders softly.

“Did you tell Senior Enchanter Alec what Daniel said?”

The girl sniffled and nodded. “He said that Daniel was right about elves not being as good at magic and that I should just accept it.”

Her little voice sounded so dejected it actually caused Cullen’s heart to twinge a little. He thought of the Circles he had served and how elves were treated the same as human mages. But, not all Circles were the same. Evelyn looked murderous for a single moment, before she carefully drew her expression back in for the sake of the child. She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against the girl’s forehead. She wiped away the girl’s tears and chewed her lip, as if carefully picking her words.

“Senior Enchanter Alec is very wrong-”

Mariel interrupted, “but he’s a _senior_ enchanter!”

Evelyn chuckled a little at that. “Adults are not infallible, even senior enchanters. He speaks from old thinking, prejudices left alone too long. There are many elven mages that are quite powerful. The first enchanter of Kirkwall is an elf. There’s even talk about an elven woman named Fiona being elected grand enchanter.”

The girl’s face lit up brightly. “An elf and a girl grand enchanter, really?”

“Yes, my love, really. So pay no mind to the Daniels and Alecs if this world, all right?” The little girl nodded and threw her arms around Evelyn’s neck. The woman smiled and hugged her tightly. As they broke apart, Evelyn spoke again: “why don’t you stay here and ask the Maker to forgive Daniel for being an arse while I go and talk to Senior Enchanter Alec?”

Mariel's eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Evelyn, you said a bad word!”

Evelyn rose and winked at the girl before walking away. As she left the room, Cullen could hear her mutter under her breath, “and I’m going to say quite a few more before the end of the day.”

She stormed down the hall, robes swishing with every determined step she made. Mages made to greet her, but saw her face and moved swiftly out of the way. She pushed through Templars with little fear, ignoring their indignant comments as she passed. Suddenly, she turned sharply and headed inside a room off the hall. Cullen followed her a moment later, and saw she had stepped into a mage’s office. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the seated mage. The other man ignored her as he continued to scribble on a sheet of parchment. His office reminded Cullen of Irving’s quarters in Kinloch. Behind the desk was a row of bookcases with books haphazardly stored. A long table filled with artifacts lay against one wall and the opposite covered with portraits of other mages.

“Senior Enchanter,” Evelyn said at last. “Have you spoken to Daniel yet?”

“About what?” the man sighed.

Evelyn huffed. “About his rudeness towards Mariel, what else?”

“Ah, tell me, _Lady_ Trevelyan what would you have me say to Daniel?”

“That is not my title, _Alec_. That boy needs to learn that here in the Circle we do not condone these ridiculous racial prejudices and that is to say nothing of his remarks about her being of a weaker sex.”

The man’s eyes flicked up to her but his face remained impassive as he spoke, “you are implying that these are not simple truths all young elven mages must learn.”

She recoiled as if she had been burned. “Is it not bad enough that we’re mages? We’re all society’s outcasts and you’d dare to put our own brethren beneath us?” He shrugged, clearly unbothered by her seething. Her eyes flashed dangerously as her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “It's mages like you that leave us shackled to the old ways. Maker," she sighed. "You are such a bastard."

"If you have concerns about my teaching methods, _Lady_ Trevelyan, you have my leave to bring it up with the First Enchanter," he drawled.

Evelyn threw up her hands. "Y'know, I believe I will be taking the First Enchanter’s offer on becoming an Enchanter myself. If only so I can undo the lies you’ve been spilling for Maker knows how long.”

With that, Cullen watched as she turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Prospect chuckled under his breath and Cullen glanced at him, eyebrow arched questioningly.

“Oh if you could see the look on your face, totally smitten.”

Cullen started. “She’s a _mage_ ,” he said, gesturing at the space she had just been in.

“Ah, yes and you’ve _never_ fancied one of those before,” Prospect snickered. “You really like a woman who’ll take charge, huh? A mage with the heart of a warrior? A woman who’ll take no prisoners, Knight-Captain?”

The Knight-Captain’s cheeks flushed and he opened his mouth to argue, but Prospect reached across and thumped him on the shoulder before he could get a single word out. The Senior Enchanter’s quarters faded from view and in a moment, they were standing in another mage’s office. It was much larger than Alec’s had been; filled with books and even more artifacts. The office could only have belonged to the First Enchanter. Standing in the room was Evelyn, clad in the same simple blue robes; an older man in first enchanter robes, with white hair and small beady eyes; and a young boy who looked absolutely petrified.

“Welcome to the Ostwick Circle, I am First Enchanter Douglas. What is your name?” the older man said gently.

“Faryn,” the boy whispered.

“Faryn, this is Evelyn,” Douglas said, gesturing to her. “She is going to help you get acquainted with the rules and ways of the Circle.”

The boy looked over to her with eyes wide with fear. She smiled at the boy, and Cullen found the corners of his lips twitching a little in response. Her smile was bright and infectious and the boy returned it shakily. She held her hand out at his eye level and winked.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the others apprentices that are your age.”

“There are other children here?” the boy asked softly.

She nodded, her smile never faltering. The boy hesitantly reached out and pressed his palm into hers. Her fingers wrapped around his hand and she gently led him out of the room, their entwined hands hanging between them. Once they were out in the hall, the boy stiffened considerably. The hard-fought calm he had shown disappeared immediately. His little knuckles turned white from their grip on her hand. If it caused her any discomfort, it did not show in her face.

“You know,” she began. As gentle as her voice was, the boy still jumped from the sound. “I was your age when I came here.”

“You were?”

“Mmhm, I came into my magic when I found some boys throwing rocks at a dog.” She looked around pointedly, as if what she was about to tell him was a great secret. She leaned down and whispered loudly, “I set their coats on fire.”

In spite of himself, Faryn giggled but immediately clapped his free hand over his mouth as his eyes widened in surprise. Evelyn grinned brightly at the boy but didn’t ask him for his own story. An easier silence fell between them as she led him through the long hallways and up the stairs to the floor above them. The Ostwick Circle was apparently housed in a rather large building and Cullen faintly wished for the opportunity to see the outside of it. The layout was unlike any he’d seen in the Free Marches.

“My Pa was hitting my Ma and I begged him to stop. Then he hit me. The next thing I knew he was completely covered up in ice. Ma screamed so loudly, sometimes I think I can still hear her. When Pa broke out of the ice, I tried to apologize but he knocked me down. Everything went dark and the next thing I knew, I was at the chantry being tied up by Templars,” the boy said softly.

“ _Tied_?” Cullen asked the boy, forgetting that he couldn’t be heard.

Evelyn turned and crouched down to eye level with him, just as she’d done with the little elven girl. “They shouldn’t have done that, Faryn and I’m sorry that you had to go through that. The Templars here are pretty nice. As long as you follow the rules, you shouldn’t have a problem with them, okay?” The boy nodded and Evelyn smiled at him again, softly. “And I promise you, everyone here has a story similar to yours. Coming into magic is never easy and because of that, we all need to stick together. Can you do that for me?”

Again the boy nodded. Evelyn patted the boy’s hand, rose to full height, and continued their journey. Finally, she rounded a corner and stopped in front of a large dormitory. She led the boy inside and he glanced around the room with wide-eyed wonder.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” she said softly. She called to the other apprentices and Cullen watched as seven other children around Faryn’s age came bounding up to her. Faryn’s cheeks flushed and his gaze snapped to the floor. Evelyn gave his hand another comforting squeeze. “Everyone, this is Faryn, he’s just come to the Circle. I expect all of you to treat him the same way you wanted to be treated when you first came to here, is that clear?”

A chorus of ‘yes, Evelyn’s echoed through the room. The woman nodded, satisfied. “All right, Faryn I’m going to go to the store room to get your supplies. Mariel, will you show Faryn around the dormitory?”

The little elf grinned and held out her hand. Faryn hesitated before letting his hand slip from Evelyn’s grip. He took Mariel’s proffered hand and the children left in a pack, pelting Faryn with questions about himself and the world outside the Circle. Evelyn heaved a little sigh as she watched them leave before she left the room.

“How am I bound to this woman?” Cullen asked Prospect.

The spirit chuckled, “oh, that is not a question I can answer. That is a question for my brother, who you’ll be meeting very soon.”

Again, Prospect grasped Cullen’s shoulder and the Ostwick Circle disappeared. Next, they were out in The Gallows courtyard. It was nighttime, but the air felt restless and full of palpable tension. Cullen looked around wearily, thinking of what sort of horror next awaited him. What further knives could the spirits drive into his heart, he wondered.

“My time with you grows short,” Prospect said, shattering Cullen’s reverie.

“Wait, what of the woman I saw? Who is she?”

Prospect chuckled. “You’ll see soon enough. I pray you take heed of my final brother to visit you tonight, Knight-Captain.” The spirit’s eyes turned downcast for a moment before flicking back up to Cullen and hitting him with the full weight of his gaze.

“Conviction explained that some events in time are set, yes?” Prospect asked him, gently. Cullen nodded. “Very soon, a disaster will come to Kirkwall. Many will die in the resulting chaos and you, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, will be left with a choice. It is the first of many and once it is made, each will fall like dominoes until you reach the end. One ending is disaster and ruin and the other is salvation. Know this, Cullen, there are those who fated to die regardless of your actions. You cannot save every one.”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest as the spirit suddenly faded from view and Cullen was left alone in the darkened courtyard. The blackness of the air swallowed him, encasing him in its grasp. The moon itself was gone, clouds covering the sky in a thick blanket of fog. The only sounds that came to his ears were the soft pants of his unsteady breath. He looked around wildly, searching for something, anything in the darkness. At once, the clouds shifted and a single column of moonlight fell upon the dark courtyard, revealing a young man. He stood stock-still, head covered by a hat with an impossibly wide brim. His clothes were in tatters and as he lifted his head to meet Cullen’s eyes, the Templar could see just how young he really was.

“Hello,” the spirit said softly.

“You are the final spirit to visit me?”

“Yes.”

Silence bloomed for a moment longer than was comfortable before Cullen sputtered, “do you have a name?”

“I am a spirit of Compassion.”

“Your fellow spirits tonight each had names of their own. Is there nothing I should call you?”

“I am compassion,” the spirit repeated. “Compassion is a selfless act, there are no names to call me beyond my kind. Even this form was chosen because it will one day be significant to you.”

“Prospect said that you are to show me the shape of things to come, is that true?”

“Yes.”

Cullen sighed and rubbed jaw tiredly. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

The spirit stood eerily still in the column of the moonlight, watching Cullen. The boy’s red-rimmed eyes bore into him, searing him in their deep gaze. He was a small thing, wan and frail, but dangerous too. The spirit was sharp as a knife and Cullen knew that compassion occasionally called for violence, for death: a merciful murder. With the boy’s translucent, sickly skin and ethereal calm he could have been death itself. Cullen had wondered if this was not a hallucination brought about by the lyrium, whether this evening was a sign that his life was ending as a knight of the Maker. He remembered watching Carroll in Kinloch and realizing the gallows joke hidden in the man’s lyrium-addled mannerisms. The very thing that was supposed to bring the mages their power was slowly killing and maiming every Templar who lived, rending their minds in twain with the promise of power and the soft, sweet singing of emptiness made whole. On his most bitter days, Cullen could remember laughing at the little bottles that stood on his desk, like shackles hanging from a gaoler’s wall. When he brought the bottle to his lips, he liked to imagine hearing the click of metal pins driving into place. But, that was only on the days when he felt the bitter anguish of his melancholy clinging to him. The rest of the time, Cullen was a good little Templar. He thanked Andraste and the Maker for the gift of lyrium as he upended the bottle and downed the contents as if it wasn’t the most glorious thing in all of creation to hit his tongue. Those were the days when he refused to writhe with pleasure as the lyrium flowed through him.

“A slave may lose his chains,” the spirit said at last, ripping Cullen from his bitter thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

The spirit tilted his head, watching Cullen closely as if the Templar were doing far more interesting actions than simply standing still and waiting for Compassion to speak. “A man on the docks, careless and carefree only because he doesn’t remember to be worried. You have one job, Carroll.” Cullen faltered, shocked into silence. “You’re worried you’ll end up like him. You’re afraid the old songs will replace the memories of chess and Mia and the Hero’s smile.”

“How do you know about that? Are…are you in my m-mind?”

“I am Compassion,” the spirit replied plainly. “I heal the hurts and you are very loud.”

“I-I haven’t said anything.”

“No,” the spirit agreed. The boy pointed at his head, “here. Sweat pouring down my brow; her naked flesh beneath mine, soft and sweet. She tastes like honeyed wine, everything I had ever hoped for. She says my name, arches her back and I fall. Blissful until her skin ripples.”

“Stop!” Cullen cried. “That’s-that’s too far.”

This spirit, like the others, ignored him. “Seven shining men in sunburst armor stand with me. One by one they fall, screaming. I am alone. The last Templar to fall, then She comes. Betrayed, hurt and unable to look at her without pain; she is brighter than she should be. I hate that I love her so much. Ashamed, twisted; a letter to Mia, ripped up and fed to the ocean between Ferelden and Kirkwall. A life no longer mine.” Compassion stopped and Cullen is faintly aware of the hot liquid seeping from his eyes. “A wound must sometimes be ripped open, a bone re-broken before it can heal properly.”

“Why are you pestering me?” Cullen snarled, his arms waving wildly above his head and caring little if any residents of The Gallows could see his madness. “Leave me!”

“You are cracked, like glass but unbroken. You cling to the mark you carry, using it for armor and shield; you hide behind Her, a mage you loved and Her, a Templar you obey but you’re not broken. Why do you act like you’re broken?”

“I’m not broken!” Cullen roared, rounding on the spirit. The longing to drive a fist through the boy’s face grips at him, but he is a Knight and slowly he began to realize, like the dawning of morning, that he was _better_ than the ones pushing the young apostate into the mattress.

“Yes,” Compassion agreed.

Cullen stopped, his chest visibly rising and falling in his white tunic as he breathed hard. The realization hit him hard enough to make his breathing difficult. His heart hammered wildly in his chest and he wondered briefly if the organ would simply give out at last.

“Now you are ready.”

The world does not shift. Instead, a great thundering boom echoed around them; he could feel the reverberation shaking his bones and rippling the blood in his veins. He stumbled, losing his footing in the shaking world. At the last moment before his face met with the stone of the courtyard, the spirit caught hold of his arms and Cullen was able steady his shaking legs. A curse escaped his lips as the acidulous tang of unrestrained magic in the air washed over his skin and clung to the lyrium in his veins. The Templar felt the magical fallout in the very air, powerless to stop it as it washed over Kirkwall. It took him a single moment to turn his head towards the main land. In the distance, a great red column of light rose upward where the chantry once stood. He gasped, great shaking breaths filling his lungs with burning magic-infused air. A cry of surprise was pulled from him as he watched _himself_ running from the main entrance of The Gallows and down to the harbor. He looked to the spirit, who continued to stand stock-still and indifferent, as if the chantry exploding was an everyday occurrence. Soon, more Templars burst from The Gallows. Many stared up at the sky with horror, some with tears but all of them took off in a run towards the harbor. Cullen tried to take off after them, desperately searching for his doppelgänger.

“Come,” the spirit murmured, stopping Cullen in his tracks.

Cullen sighed and nodded as Compassion took his hand. Together, the two of them walk through a gateway of light. The docks disappeared in the blindingly bright light of the portal. As they walked further, the light faded and Cullen realized he was once again standing in The Gallows courtyard. In front of him, he could see the Champion and company facing off against Meredith. At his Commander’s left, stands the Champion’s brother and on her right he sees himself staring Hawke down.

 _“_ Knight-Commander, I thought we intended to arrest the champion,” his counterpart said, stepping away from Meredith.

Cullen’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched Meredith face him, anger lighting the sharp angles of her face into something monstrous. “You will do as I command, Cullen,” she ordered, blue eyes cold and yet somehow burning with fury.

“No,” the ghostly Cullen, whose fingers were still entwined with the Compassion’s cold digits, whispered mournfully as he watched the armored version of himself weigh her orders.

 _That_ Cullen swallowed and glanced to the Champion, the apostate the Templars were never allowed to arrest. A mage left unchecked by the Circle and its Templars because of status and wealth, a point that had been sore inside Cullen’s breast for longer than he chose to admit. _That_ Cullen nodded and stepped aside. Bile rose in his throat and the meager contents of his stomach threatened to spill out on to the courtyard stone.

“I want them dead!” Meredith snarled, pointing her sword - lyrium she had said, to Cullen’s great surprise - at the Champion's group.

“No!” cried Carver, stepping in front of his sibling. “I will not help you kill my-”

“Carver, don’t,” Hawke interrupted. “Please, it’s…it’s okay.”

“No,” seethed Carver as he reached to draw his sword.

Then, suddenly, there was a glint of silver in the moonlight and a spurt of crimson flying through the air as something soft and heavy hit the stone beneath their feet. A strangled cry and a scream filled the vacuum of sound and Cullen was uniquely surprised to hear that one of the twin voices crying out belonged to him. He was even more surprised to see that his parallel was standing a step forward, sword drawn and dripping with viscous scarlet. The biggest shock of all, however, came when the headless body of Ser Carver Hawke fell to the ground in front of the Champion. At this realization, Cullen gagged and the force of his regurgitation caused him to double over. He’d killed men before; he’d stood in the Harrowing chamber and struck the killing blow against mages who failed their test but seeing himself actually _murder_ Carver was more than he could bear. The other strangled cry, predictably, belonged to the Champion. Two soft thuds echoed around the stillness of the courtyard as the Champion’s knees collided with the stone. Shaking hands gripped Carver’s body, hauling it into an embrace as a haunted keening was ripped from a throat already ragged from grief. The little Dalish elf had collapsed as well, her own mournful screams melding with Hawke’s; hers was not the cry of a lost friend, but one of heartbreak that Cullen recognized the sound from his dreams of Solona dying from the Archdemon. The tattooed elf, still somber gripped Hawke’s shoulder tightly; the red band around his wrist reminiscent of the color now seeping through the Champion’s mantle. Guard Captain Aveline, the one he remembered being called to investigate for softness, looked anything but her accusation. The look she gave the armored Cullen could have melted the very silverite covering his body. A dwarf in a leather duster held back a woman who looked more like a pirate than a citizen of Kirkwall, as she spewed vile obscenities and threats against the life of every person wearing Templar silver. Weary sorrow etched the face of her restrainer, as if he were suddenly a hundred years older than he had been when Carver still breathed. The Champion’s shoulders hunched over Carver, shaking steadily.

“You killed him,” the little Dalish wailed. She rose to her feet, wiping away her tears with the back of her hands.

“Merrill, don’t!”

“ _Ar tu na’din_ ,” she seethed and Cullen didn’t need to know Elvish to understand what she had said.

He watched as his other self pointed his drawn sword at the little elf. “Do not test my patience, apostate.”

“ _Ma emma harel_ ,” she murmured. A gleam in the moonlight, and Cullen could see a small knife in her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the knife slid into her hand and opened her veins. The blood flowed around her, the ripping sensation of blood magic thrummed against Cullen’s skin as she began to cast. “May the Dread Wolf take you all!”

The holy smite caught Cullen and the Dalish maleficar off guard. It was common practice for a Templar to pull back on a Smite, never unleashing its true power. Meredith, having drawn not only on her own abilities but on the lyrium sword sent a holy smite more powerful than any Cullen had ever seen careening towards the little elf. The Dalish was thrown backwards, clear to the other side of the courtyard where she smacked against the opposite wall. Her head cracked loudly into the stone and as her body slid down, she left a bright red streak in her wake. Those overly large eyes were glassy and dead as she twitched once and was gone.

“You bitch!” cried the Pirate, renewing her struggle against the dwarf.

“ _Hawke_.”

The Champion recoiled, head rising sharply to look at the tattooed elf. Carver’s body fell from limp arms as Hawke rose to surprisingly steady feet. An arm flew about the elf’s neck as their lips came crashing together. “I love you, Fenris,” Hawke murmured against the elf’s skin. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll get to keep my promise.”

“I am _yours_ , Hawke. Until the very end,” the elf replied, planting a final kiss on the Champion’s forehead.

The Champion turned and faced Meredith. “Magic will serve the best in me, not that which is most base.”

“Stand down, Champion!” Meredith snarled.

Unabated, Hawke smirked. “I think my father will forgive me this time.”

Cullen watched as the dwarf and the pirate exchanged quick looks.

“Well Rivaini, what’d you say to one more round?”

The pirate nodded and grinned ruefully. Twin flasks flew from hidden pockets and collided with the ground. Two thick clouds of smoke blossomed from the broken glass, allowing the two rogues the means to disappear. The dwarf reappeared a moment later behind Meredith, a rondel dagger sparkling in his hand. He thrust it forward, puncturing through the chain mail on Meredith’s back. The dagger slid home, piercing her flesh. She shrieked sharply. It was an almost weak, pitiful sound and one that Cullen had never imagined the imposing Knight capable of making. At the sound of her screams, the pirate woman appeared in front of Meredith and kicked the lyrium sword from her hands. The cursed thing went clattering across the stone courtyard. Snarling, Meredith backhanded the pirate and sent her flying in the same direction of the sword. The woman laughed heartily as she clutched her rapidly bruising cheek. Meredith tried to turn to face the dwarf, but the knife protruding from her back made the movement impossible.

“Now, Hawke!”

At that, the Champion’s staff went twirling through the air. Cullen could feel the magic rippling around them, heightened by the charged emotional state of the mage. The point of the weapon struck the ground and all the Templars went hurtling off their feet. The loud crash of their armor against stone deafened Cullen as he threw his hands about his ears to block some modicum of the horrific sound. The Templars groaned and moaned as they tried to collect themselves. Cullen could see several were lying motionless and he wondered if they were dead or simply unconscious.

The sweet, singing scent of lyrium filled the air as the Champion pulled a stopper out of a blue bottle and downed the contents. Meredith was the first to rise to her feet and she took two lurching steps before she froze in place. Her eyes widened, horror dawning on her face as two great, shadowed hands appeared out of the thin air next to her. They looked as if they were made of the Void itself. She screamed as they each grabbed a side of her body, hoisting her in the air. Cullen could hear Hawke grunting with effort as the hands began to pull. He wanted to look towards the Champion, but found he couldn’t take his eyes off of his Knight-Commander. Meredith shrieked again, as shrill as broken glass and as wild as any animal. Over the din of her screams, Cullen could hear his counterpart shouting for the Templars to rally and silence Hawke. Yet, the silence came too late. With one final burst of effort the hands pulled apart, splattering the courtyard and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing near with Meredith's lifeblood. The Champion collapsed from the effort, body crumpling like fisted parchment against the stone of the courtyard ground. Cullen’s parallel crossed the space between Hawke and the Templars, holding his sword against the Champion’s throat.

“Enough. You will stand down, apostate.”

Hawke laughed, a discordant and broken sound. “My only regret is not being able to kill you too, you fucking bastard." Hawke spat at Cullen's feet. "Void take you."

Without warning, _that_ Cullen thrust his sword into the Champion’s gullet; the jagged laugh ended in a wet burble. The tattooed elf bellowed, his tattoos lighting up as his face darkened with fury. He crossed the small space between them, his spiked hands reaching for Cullen when suddenly the elf stopped in his tracks. He jerked once and fell to the ground on top of Hawke’s body, an arrow jutting out from the base of his neck. Cullen looked up to see a Templar archer standing behind the elf, his bow still raised. _That_ Cullen pulled his sword back and wiped the blade off on Hawke’s fur collar. He pointed the blade at the Guard-Captain. “Arrest Guard-Captain Aveline. Execute the other two.”

Compassion squeezed Cullen’s hand. He jumped, his open mouth snapping shut. His arms, hands, and fingers shook visibly as Compassion pulled him to his feet and led him towards another gateway of light. They passed through and Cullen immediately collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. He dropped the spirit’s hand and buried his face in his own. Black spots curled around on his vision, as time itself seemed to slow down. Whatever horrible scene the spirit had taken him to sounded hollow and warped to his roaring ears. A jagged, dry whimper tore from his chest as his shoulders heaved.

“I-I killed the Champion. I killed Carver. Oh, Maker. Oh, Maker forgive me. I cannot-I cannot believe….” He raised his head and grabbed at the spirit’s clothes. “Please, tell me what happened to them. What about the Guard-Captain?”

“She stands tall on the block, sad to leave her second chance behind but hopeful of seeing the Templar she loved first again. She regretted nothing, even when the headsman’s axe fell.” Cullen let the spirit’s clothes slip from his fingers as he collapsed further in on himself. “The other Circles mourned the loss of The Gallows and its Champion. The Grey-less Warden declared war. The mages and the Templars fought until the veil ripped,” the spirit tried to explain.

Words refused to penetrate the mind of the stunned Templar. He cared little for the events of this world as his mind continued to replay the images of Carver’s head rolling across the stone and the mirthless spark of light fading from the eyes of the Champion. Vaguely, however, he understood. Kirkwall was the kindling waiting to be lit by the spark of war. The spirit grasped Cullen’s arm and with surprising strength, hauled the man to his feet. “I am sorry to hurt you, but we must keep going.”

Cullen nodded mutely and let Compassion lead towards a chantry in a small village. Snow crunched under his feet and magic thrummed against his skin. He looked around for the source before his eyes arched skyward. His legs turned to lead as his heart leapt into his throat. In the sky above him was a giant, green maelstrom. It fluctuated violently, sending pulses of magic plummeting to the ground below.

“What?” was all Cullen could manage to say.

“They will call it The Breach,” the spirit said wearily. “The veil is torn asunder, your world and mine pushed together. They come through the tear and turn into fractures of themselves.”

“Demons?”

“That is what they turn into.”

Gripping Cullen’s arm again, Compassion pulled him away from the sight of The Breach and into the chantry. They strode through the small stone building, filled with men and women in the red and white garb of the chantry. He could hear various points of the chant recited in a litany of accents from Orlesian to Fereldan, Marcher to Antivan. They stepped through the stone wall at the back of the chantry as if it was made of nothing. Seeing the large map and markers in the center of the room, Cullen realized they were in a war room. He watched as another version of him, older this time, paced in front of the map in full Knight-Commander plate. His older self looked terrible. Deep lines cut wrinkles into his once-youthful skin. His complexion was waxy, smoothed skin now mottled with age and ill care. Even his hair looked limp and haggard. The young Cullen let out a shuddering breath at the sight of his future. The telltale shake of the older Cullen’s hands spoke of the lyrium-addled future he feared.

The door to the war room opened and three women walked in. The younger Cullen recognized one of them as Leliana, one of Amell’s companions during the fifth blight and left hand of the divine. Another, he knew as a Seeker of Truth. The third, he shocked to see was Evelyn Trevelyan; the mage Prospect had shown him. Cullen stepped away from Compassion and craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the mage. The years had evidently been much kinder to her than to him. She looked a little older, but the only truly perceptible change was a glowing green mark etched into the palm of her hand.

“Too many eyes; they’re chasing me, must run faster. Take my hand. I can save us both. It’s closing, I’m sorry. She’s the only survivor, marked forever by the magic of The Breach; the only one who can save the world. Modest in temper, bold in deed; another bird who can’t fly away.”

The older Cullen’s fist slammed into the wooden war table, startling all of the room’s occupants. He pointed a gauntlet-encased hand at Evelyn and snarled, “Where is your Templar? How many times must we go over this, Mage?”

“Knight-Commander,” Leliana began, her words thick with her Orlesian accent. “I hardly think-”

“Magic is inherently dangerous and with this breach in the sky, all mages are even more susceptible to possession. The fact that we must rely on _this_ mage weakens us alone. If she falls victim to possession, we are lost. I agreed to serve as Commander of these forces under the understanding that you would listen to my warnings regarding the mages.”

“I won’t be possessed, Knight-Commander,” Trevelyan said gently.

The older Cullen scoffed, “forgive me if I don’t take the word of an apostate on that.”

“All mages are technically apostates now, Knight-Commander,” she replied tartly.

“If your kind would return to the Circles where they belong, this foolhardy war would be finished.”

Trevelyan sighed. “I don’t want to have this argument with you again, Knight-Commander. As I reminded you before, Ostwick’s Circle chose to remain neutral in the conflict. We were at the Conclave to promote a peaceful resolution between both sides.”

“So you say. Again, forgive me if I don’t believe the word of an apostate.”

Groaning, Trevelyan threw her arms up in the air. “Since you have barred from helping plan any of the missions, I will take my leave.”

When the Knight-Commander made no move to stop her or even respond, Trevelyan rolled her eyes and stormed out of the war room. Leliana watched her leave before her gaze flicked back to the Knight-Commander. Her lips pursed and she exchanged glances with Cassandra. The air in the room was tense, uncomfortable enough that even Cullen found himself shifting his weight and fidgeting as he waited for one of the figures in front of him to do something, anything to ease the enmity surrounding them.

“He is chained; iron links of hate and distrust, locked by lyrium. He let himself be marked by Uldred, by Meredith and the blood of Champions and Skills thoughtfully applied. The room is safer when you fill it with the softness of fear.”

“Softness of fear?” Cullen murmured, even knowing that the figures before him could neither see nor hear him. “You make fear sound comforting.”

“Yes. Fear is easy; it comes to you and embraces you. It protects you, prevents you from taking risk. It’s the opposite of fear that is jagged and rough, difficult to wrap your arms around. It hurts you before it helps you, breaks your bones so they can heal straight. Fear would let your bones heal crooked and brittle.” The spirit paused, looking back to Cullen. Compassion’s eyes were just barely visible underneath the brim of his gargantuan hat, but Cullen could see they were deep and mournful. “Even now you are afraid. You see that woman, a mage and you think about the first one. But, they aren’t the same; you are not the same.”

“It is a danger-”

“You will never be free unless you shrug off the chains that bind you to the past,” he pointed at the Knight-Commander. “You don’t have to be him. He does not have to exist.”

Cullen swallowed, nodding to the spirit to show he understood. Evidently satisfied, Compassion grasped Cullen’s hand in his own and pulled the Templar to his feet. Another gateway of light appeared ahead of them. Cullen lifted his free hand to his eyes to shield from the blindingly white glare.

* * *

“Did we have success?”

Cassandra looked uncomfortable, glancing back and forward between him and Evelyn. He raised his eyebrows at her sharply, after another moment she sighed. “Yes, the remaining Templars have joined forces with us. The Lord-Seeker had been replaced by an envy demon, but thanks to Ser Barris and the remaining veteran Templars, the demon has been destroyed. It attempted to-”

“Cassandra!” Leliana interrupted.

“What is it?” hissed the Knight-Commander.

“The envy demon attempted to possess me,” Evelyn said wearily. “Before you panic, there’s an entire castle of Templars who will agree that the demon is destroyed and _not_ inside me.”

The Knight-Commander narrowed his eyes and glared at Evelyn, who returned his gaze evenly. The younger Cullen felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Many a recruit and mage had been felled under that glare, to see another capable of withstanding it made him oddly pleased. Even without the mark on her hand, it was evident that Evelyn was a special woman. Cullen found himself shame-faced over the blatant derision his older self was showing to Trevelyan.

“How long until the veterans arrive?”

Cassandra opened her mouth to answer, but a sudden flash and cloud of smoke erupting in the middle of the war table interrupted her. The group jumped back from the war table as a young man in tattered clothing and an impossibly wide brimmed hat appeared crouched on the table. Cullen looked back and forward between the young man and Compassion, eyes wide.

“That’s you!” he hissed to the spirit standing next to him. The spirit nodded slowly. “Maker,” Cullen murmured.

Immediately the Knight-Commander drew his sword and pointed it at the young man. “Demon!”

“Wait!” Evelyn cried. “Don’t hurt him, he helped me when the envy demon tried to possess me.”

All eyes in the room shifted to Trevelyan. The tension in the air was suddenly thick enough to cut with the Knight-Commander’s drawn sword. Leliana gasped as Trevelyan’s eyes widened. She slapped her hands over her mouth as if she just realized what she had said. Cassandra’s face was screwed up with pain as she took a step back from Trevelyan. She ran a hand through her short black hair and looked away forlornly. The Knight-Commander stalked slowly towards Trevelyan, glaring at her.

“You consorted with this demon,” he accused.

“No, I’m not possessed. I’m not an abomination or a maleficar. He _helped_ me, but offered me no deals. _Please_ don’t do this Knight-Commander.”

He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and held her aloft so she had to stand on the tips of her toes. Cullen winced as he saw the painful tightness of his hand around her limb.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the Knight-Commander said. Trevelyan looked visibly relieved, the tension in her shoulders drifting away. He continued, “we still need you for the rifts. We’ll give you the Brand instead.”

“No,” she gasped, eyes blown wide with fear. “Please, no. Maker, no! Anything else, _please_.”

Cullen’s breath left him. Ice flowed through his veins, as he stood, frozen and unable to do anything other than watch the terrible scene unfold before him.

“I have no choice. I am responsible for the safety of this Inquisition and I refuse to endanger its people by letting a potential abomination run wild.”

“Knight-Commander this is extreme, surely.”

“Would you rather we have to slay her later, Cassandra, and lose the mark all together? We already know it can function without a magical connection to the fade. She was able to close rifts even after being silenced. We all agreed that should the Herald pose any risk to the Inquisition that I would take action against her.”

Rather than wait for an answer, the Knight-Commander pulled Trevelyan forcibly from the room. Her boots drug behind her as she fought against the Knight-Commander’s iron-hard grip. She begged, screamed and cried for mercy as he led her to the dungeons. Cullen followed and was horrified to see that none of the chantry members even bothered to question why his future self was dragging a screaming woman to the dungeons. The Knight-Commander’s vice-like grip never wavered, even as she was unceremoniously hauled down the stairs into the dank dungeon.

In The Gallows, the Brand had its own chamber and was as guarded and revered as the Harrowing chamber. Three Templars always stood guard at all times and when it was time for a mage to undergo the Rite, the room would fill with Templar recruits ordered to observe the ritual. At Kinloch, the Brands were kept in velvet-lined cases under lock and key in a manner similar to the phylactery vault. The Gallows had gotten into the habit of branding daily and Cullen was suddenly horrified to realize that they had kept the enchanted lyrium rods in the fire at all times. The dungeon in this tiny chantry had a large cell that had been repurposed as a Branding chamber and was set up in a manner similar to the Gallows. Cullen couldn’t help but notice as he stepped into the room that the rods were already in the fire. Trevelyan was hauled into the room and thrown into a chair set in the center of the room. She immediately tried to rise, but two of the Templars standing guard held her down as the third forcibly restrained her. She screamed and thrust her body against the restraints, tears streaming down her face.

“ _Please_ ,” she pleaded, her voice hoarse from screaming. “I’m not possessed, I swear to the Maker.”

“Her head as well, Ser Blake.”

Cullen shuddered as the third Templar forced a leather strap between her teeth and tightened it cruelly behind the head of the chair. She whimpered but still tried to thrash against her binds. Her white teeth bit against the leather, as if trying to gnaw through it. Salvia dripped down her chin, causing her to look like a rabid animal. The Knight-Commander bowed his head, the three other Templars following suit a moment later.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond,” he murmured. The Knight-Commander picked up the lyrium rod and held it aloft. “Maker, guide my hand.”

With dawning horror, Cullen realized that she would be branded without a blindfold. It was considered a mercy, and it was commonplace even in The Gallows, for a mage to be blindfolded during the Rite so they could not see the Brand coming. He shuddered when he thought that the last thing she’d see as a whole person was the glowing sunburst descending upon her. Cullen looked away from the scene and shivered as the sound of the brand pressing against her skin hit his ears. Trevelyan screamed against her restraint for a moment until the sound suddenly died away.

She was gone.

When it was over, the rod returned to the fire and her restraints removed, Cullen watched as the Knight-Commander simply turned his back on Evelyn and left her in the dark dungeon. Typically after a Branding, the Templar who had performed the ritual would go through a list of questions to ensure the wellness of the Tranquil. At the minimum, the Templar who performed the Brand would at least help the Tranquil up. She rose from the chair and blinked several times. Her eyes, once bright, were now dull; her expression remained neutral. One of the Templars standing guard over the chamber told her to go back upstairs to the chantry. She left the room silently, as if she hadn’t just had a piece of herself forcibly ripped away. She strode down the hall, eyes straight ahead.

“Herald? Trevelyan?” a soft voice called in the darkness.

She blinked and turned towards a cell. “Hello, Solas.”

Cullen winced unconsciously. Her once lilting voice was now neutral, emotionless. It made his chest hurt more than it should. He moved around Trevelyan to get a better look at the occupant inside. It was an elf, he saw at last, a bald man with a sad face. The elf swallowed, eyes flicking up to the healing sunburst sitting on forehead.

“I heard the screams,” he said, voice carefully even.

“The pain was severe,” she replied.

“Yes, I can imagine,” the prisoner looked away, staring at the stones on wall. “For what it’s worth, Herald, I am sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I… never mind. You better go before you catch a chill.”

She blinked and dipped her head before turning on her heel and leaving the elf in the darkness of his cell. Cullen followed her as she walked up the stone steps from the dungeon and out into the warm light of the chantry. She looked straight ahead, unbothered by the stares of the chantry occupants. She stepped a few paces away from the door to the dungeon and stopped. Evelyn stood still, unmoving save for the intermittent blink of her dulled eyes, awaiting a task to be given to her. A few moments later, the doors to the chantry burst open. A disheveled warrior with a thick, black beard stormed into the chapel. His steps thundered against the stone as his loose gambeson ties trailed behind him like Summerday ribbons caught in a breeze. His lined face, unmarred save for the beard, was like thunder and his eyes aflame with purpose as he shoved his way through startled clergy. His gaze flicked over to Trevelyan and the scarred sun emblazoned on her brow. He stopped, lips parting for only a moment before he crossed the chantry and took her in his arms. He held her tightly to his chest; a jagged, mournful choking sound tore from his mouth as he rocked her unmoving body in his arms. Hers remained at her sides, eyes still staring straight ahead as if a giant, hysterical man wasn’t clutching her against his chest.

“I should have stopped him, I’m sorry Evelyn. Maker, I’m so sorry.”

“You do not need to be sorry, Warden-Constable Blackwall.”

He flinched a little, still holding her tightly. “I knew I should have gone in with you. I’ll kill him for this, Maker I swear that man will die choking on his own blood.”

“No,” she replied. “That would deprive the Inquisition of its Knight-Commander and Grey Warden ally. Both are vital elements of the Inquisition and they are necessary for the unit to function as a whole.”

He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. Gently, he pressed his thumb against the raised flesh of the lightless sun. “Does it-Maker, I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

She blinked. “It does not hurt now.”

“Maker’s balls,” he cursed, eyes clenching shut.

Cullen looked away. The thickness of his esophagus made breathing difficult. Compassion sidled up alongside Cullen and took him by the hand again. Cullen sighed and watched as the Tranquil Trevelyan disappeared from his line of sight. He let the spirit lead him through the portal of bright light. On the other side, his ears were immediately assaulted with the screams of dying men. His nostrils burned from the acrid stench of smoldering human remains, blazing buildings and the terrible brimstone fetor of dragon fire. The chantry bell tolled, a terrible clanging against the bitter cacophony of a battle lost before it had even begun.

Compassion and Cullen stood side by side, watching the endless parade of bloodied and battered wounded streaming into the chantry. His older self is standing at the entrance, his normally tired and lined face dark; lips curled into a perpetual snarl. The gleaming silver of his armor caught the moonlight, a foolish beacon for the monster circling over their heads. After sticking his head out of the chantry for a moment, the Knight-Commander ordered the doors shut. Soldiers in matching armor sagged against the door as the Knight-Commander stormed to the middle of the chapel. The Seeker, Leliana, the Warden and a mage with an impressive mustache surrounded him. All expressions were grim. The Seeker was bloodied; her left eye swollen shut and dried blood caking her cheek.

“We lost Bull and the Chargers in the first wave,” she said with a grimace of pain. “They bought me enough time to make it inside.”

“Josephine is gathering those who can walk to go out the back of the chantry,” Leliana added.

“Where is the Herald? Why isn’t she fighting?” the mage asked the group.

The Warden scoffed bitterly. He took the mage by the shoulder and turned him towards the far wall of the chantry. Trevelyan stood near an altar of candles, eyes blankly staring ahead. When the great monster roared overhead, she alone did not flinch. The scarred sunburst adorning her forehead looked weeks healed. She would have appeared to be any other of the few Tranquil standing around the chantry, save for the telling green glow of the mark on her hand. “ _There_ is the Herald.”

The mage recoiled with horror. “Y-you made her _Tranquil_?”

“ _He_ did,” the Warden replied, gesturing to the Knight-Commander.

“ _Kaffas_.”

“I will not apologize for protecting the Inquisition from the dangers of magic and those who wield it.”

Dorian watched Trevelyan and her unchanging stare until he shuddered, shut his eyes and turned away. “I’m starting to think I made a poor choice.”

“You and me both,” Blackwall murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

“The Elder One has come for her,” Dorian said at last, pointing at Trevelyan. At this, Evelyn finally turned to look at the group. She blinked and watched their exchange calmly before she walked over to their small party. “And now, you’ve made her powerless to defend herself.”

No one noticed Trevelyan’s approach. The Knight-Commander was too busy opining the merits of performing the Rite on mages who couldn’t be trusted while Dorian argued about the brutality of Southerners and their Templars. Cassandra attempted to shout over them, trying to remind them of the true danger outside. Leliana rolled her eyes and disappeared into the back, presumably to help the rest of the refugees. Blackwall’s voice joined in the fray, a softer murmur in comparison to the other three. Trevelyan tilted her head, as if the four people in front of her were some sort of great puzzle to figure out.

“What are we supposed to do? She’s useless! I’ve seen baby chickens with more fight in them.”

“It is hardly your place to decide, _Magister_.”

Dorian threw up his hands in protest. “I’m not a magister! I’m an _Altus_.”

“As if there’s a difference.”

“There is you-”

The Knight-Commander’s eyes narrowed, as the mage let loose an impressive stream of what Cullen had to assume was Tevene profanity. All the while, no one noticed as Trevelyan turned away from them and walked towards the chantry doors. It took her a little effort, but eventually she managed to lift the huge wooden bar across the door. When it clattered to the stone ground, all arguments stopped as the group collective started and turned towards the source of the noise. She undid the latch on the door and pushed it open. As she stepped a single foot out into the snow, Blackwall crossed the room and threw his arms around her middle to haul her back into the chantry.

“Evelyn! What are you doing?”

“If the one who attacks us has come for me, logic dictates I should surrender myself to him.”

“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dorian quipped from behind Blackwall.

The Tranquil turned her empty-eyed gaze on to him, causing the Altus to visibly stiffen and fidget uncomfortably. Cullen could remember similar reactions from the mages at both Kinloch and The Gallows. Mages never liked being around the Tranquil, he had to assume it was because they didn’t like the reminder of what they could become.

“If I do not surrender myself, he will not stop until we are all dead. If I give myself up, there is a chance he will relent.”

“No, he won’t,” Dorian, sighed. “He doesn’t care about any of us, or you.”

“There is a zero percent chance of the former, Altus Pavus. The latter wields at least a fifty percent chance. Either he will or he will not. I do not wish to die, but if this is the best manner for my life to be of service then I will go.”

Coldness traveled the span of Cullen’s body, trailing its fingers down his spine and through his limbs. “She’s not…she’s-” he stammered.

“Would you like to know how it ends?” the spirit asked, holding out his hand for Cullen to take again.

He chewed on his lip, holding his hand up hesitantly. He breathed deeply and grasped the palm of the spirit. All at once, the scene around them changed. Whiteness surrounded them, encapsulating Cullen and his senses. It was as if he was a flame that had suddenly gone out. There was nothing at all for several moments until slowly, the world began to bleed back through the haze. The first thing he noticed as his eyes cleared was the sky. The whirling maelstrom of green had grown, spreading the entire breadth of the welkin. The sensation of wild, out of control magic burned across his skin. The aether surrounding them seemed thick with corruption unlike any he’d experienced since the Blight. Giant towers of bright red, singing crystals dwarfed him. He could feel them drawing to him, pulling at his veins. There was no life around them. No plants or animals, he couldn’t even feel moisture in the air he tried - rather unsuccessfully - to breathe. Pain gripped his chest, his lungs burning and his body aching. He realized he couldn’t even tell where in Thedas they were even standing.

“The veil is gone. It was ripped away by the Conductor. Now our worlds are one, but no spirits remain. There are only demons now. Forced through into the other world, betrayed and unloved they twist and bend to fit into the minds of the men before them. Corrupted, chained and used for intentions that were once good.”

“Evelyn?” Cullen whispered.

“Dead; body broken, bleeding as she is thrown against the trebuchet. She does not remember to run. She gave herself to the Conductor, but he did not yield. She died because she could not know to fight back. Lightless sun seared into skin, the fade ripped away from her. In the part that was left inside the Fade, she wanted to die. Without her, they have nothing to live for; with her death, Andraste has deserted them at last.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen wheezed.

The spirit eyed him, before grasping Cullen by the arm and pulling him closer. The world gave the barest of shudders and suddenly they were standing in the middle of a snowy landscape. Cullen’s breath came easier, but the bitter cold bit into his skin through the thin fabric of tunic and trousers. They were in a mountain range, somewhere outside of Ferelden. Though the corrupted landscape had not reached up to the altitude they were standing at, Cullen could see the churning green of the sky clearly. It spread across the ether, as far as his eyes could see in every direction. It was as if their entire world had been blanketed by the foulness of The Breach. Compassion pulled him along, Cullen’s steps fumbling in the deep snow. They stopped on a peak and looked down into the rolling valley below them. It was dotted with black spots stuck into the icy earth. The spirit pulled him down the hill and as the first of the black shapes approached them, Cullen realized that they were in fact... _people_. He recoiled with horror as the frozen face of a nameless soldier stared up at him. Compassion came to a stop at the frozen remnants of a tent. It had been ripped apart, by wind if he had to guess. The pieces, now frozen solid, clattered against each other in the slight breeze.

Cullen stood still as the biting wind ripped into his skin. He turned his head from side to side and whirled around in place as he took in the devastation around him. The lives of all the people in that tiny, snowy village just...gone. He found himself retching, again. He doubled over and attempted to vomit violently into the snow. His stomach was still empty from the previous purging, but that didn’t stop the organ from clenching tightly and releasing what little was left. Maker, it _hurt._ It felt as if his body was tearing itself apart from the inside out. Compassion handed him a frozen sword and Cullen’s hand shook violently as he felt the familiar leather-wrapped grip in his hand. Instinctually, he ran his fingers down the flat side of the blade and found the familiar symbol of the Sword of Mercy engraved into the hilt.

“You are dead in this world. You and all of the Inquisition; stiff, cold and blue they are entombed forever by the ice; peaceful, asleep forever.”

Cullen’s stomach continued to undulate with wave after wave of nausea. He knew himself to be mortal and knew that one day he would go to the Maker’s side. Yet, actually _knowing_ himself to be dead made him sick.

Compassion continued, ironically unsympathetic to the Templar’s pain: “She died because of your fear. You died because of your own distrust.”

His limbs trembled as his breathing became stilted, panicked. His body fell like into a heap in the snow. He held his head in his hands and rocked himself, in spite of the bitter cold wetness that was slowly seeping in through his trousers. Burning, splitting emotional _pain_ seared through him, the images haunted him as he tried to shut his eyes. It was all…Maker, it was all too much to bear. He finally relented, and let go of the sob that had been threatening to rise out of his chest. Tears, impossibly hot in the frigid air, trailed down his cheeks. The spirit knelt down before him, and cupped Cullen’s cheeks in his cold hand. With the soft pads of his thumbs, Compassion wiped Cullen’s tears away.

“Can I save her? Can I save all of them?”

“The ones dead at your hand, yes. With you at her side, she will succeed and with her at _your_ side, you will too. Remember,” he said as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against Cullen, still cupping his cheeks.

Cullen shut his eyes at the word, sighing a little as he felt himself calm. The air around them grew warmer and the roar of the mountain wind died in Cullen’s ears while the salty tang of the sea air filled his nostrils. He became aware of a light burning through his eyelids. Opening his eyes, he came face to face with the lone candle on his desk, still burning brightly. His held breath left his lungs in an audible wheeze. Stupidly, he reached up and felt his face and his throat and down his shoulders. Once he was positive he was intact, he rose to shaky feet and looked about the room. Everything was just as he left it. It looked as if Cullen had simply collapsed on his way to the bed. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair and questioned if that wasn’t truly what happened to him. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Still, even if the spirits were figments of his exhausted mind, the message itself was too clear to have come from anyone other than the Maker.

The chill that ran through him as his mind replayed the images of all the death and destruction was very real. His traitorous brain fixated on the image of him in shining Knight-Commander armor, callously administering the Rite to Trevelyan. He shuddered unconsciously at the memory of her hollow eyes. No. Maker no, that would not happen by his hand.

From the distant mainland, a great thundering boom erupted around him. His office shook, dislodging his armor rack and the few sentimental tokens he’d placed around his quarters. The thrum of wild, unconfined magic caressed his skin. In an instant he knew it was beginning, the chantry had erupted and the war would begin. He couldn’t help as his thoughts turned to Evelyn. He pictured her praying before the statue of Andraste, comforting the mage children under her care. He couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through his body, chasing the remnants of the bitter chill away. She was in Ostwick, at this very moment. Part of him wanted to leave Kirkwall and go to her. A little bitter inkling wondered if she had been a figment, someone conjured up by his mind. No, she was real. She had to be real. The spirits had said that their fates were intertwined so Cullen knew one day, they’d find each other. He’d stand beside her. As Maker as his witness, he would not let her fall. A small smile curled on the edges of his lips as he remembered her infectious grin. He knew he would have a few years before they’d meet and in that time, he’d endeavor to become someone worthy of her. It would be a hard road, but with nothing less than the fate of the world on his shoulders, Cullen would endure and he would succeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, apologies for the excessively unoriginal title. I wanted to allude to the original work and honestly couldn't come up with anything better. 
> 
> I originally started working on this as a break from a Carver/Cullen longfic I've been writing for the past couple of months but it kind of morphed into this huge thing by itself. Though I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I wanted this to be as close to something that *could have* canonically happened to Cullen during his time at The Gallows. So, even though the OP had bonus points for Cole being the final spirit to visit Cullen, at that time Compassion had yet to encounter the real Cole. So I fudged a little and kept Compassion as the pre-Cole spirit who took on Cole's appearance so Cullen would know them later. And...I never know how to tag these things. I left it Gen as relationships were definitely not the focus of the story, but rather Cullen's personal growth. But the relationships themselves were pretty one-sided as everything is shown from Cullen's point of view. He longs and lusts, but there's never any consummation of feelings. So is it one-sided or is it implied or is it nothing at all?
> 
> And Merrill's elvish translations:  
>  _Ar tu na’din_ \- I will kill you.  
>  _Ma emma harel_ \- You should fear me.
> 
> This work will be cross posted at the original K-Meme prompt [thread](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50808539#t50808539) and on my account at [Fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6452639/). You can also find me on [tumblr](http://dear-miss-adair.tumblr.com/). Thank you all so much for reading.


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